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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28289553">The Warlord's Prize: Is Three Really a Party?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FishPanda/pseuds/Badfish%20_original%20porn%20be%20warned_'>Badfish _original porn be warned_ (FishPanda)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Warlord and His Prince (AKA that orc/elf noncon no one but me wanted) [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Choking, Crying During Sex, Emotional Manipulation, Gangbang, Large Cock, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Painful Sex, Rape, Rapists in Love, Size Difference, Size Kink, Spitroasting, Threats of Graphic Violence, threats of murder</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:53:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,207</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28289553</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FishPanda/pseuds/Badfish%20_original%20porn%20be%20warned_</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Part four: the ravishing – and ravished – elf prince tries to run away from his lustful warlord captor and runs afoul of a few of the warlord’s forces. They’re happy about it. He, not so much.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Orc Warlord/Captured Elf Prince, orc warriors/captured elf prince</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Warlord and His Prince (AKA that orc/elf noncon no one but me wanted) [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2063046</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>149</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Warlord's Prize: Is Three Really a Party?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The promised gangbang. This turned out to have a little more character development then I intended. Enjoy, and pay attention to the tags.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They are only a few days away from crossing into the orcish badlands when Llianderin decides to make his escape. There will never be a perfect moment, he knows, but at least now he still has a chance to hide among the human population if he manages to get away. Once they enter orc territory, he is going to be completely surrounded by enemies, and recapture or death by starvation or hypothermia will become the only possible outcomes. </p><p>Tonight promises as ideal conditions as he is likely to get. It is a new moon, meaning there will be almost no moonlight to reflect off his skin, and it is looking to be foggy besides. For the past few days, the warlord has taken to setting up his tent near the edge of the camp, meaning there will be less fires and sleeping warriors for Llianderin to steal his way through. And tonight there are woods nearby, and the elf is almost sure he heard streaming water, which he could potentially use to hide his scent.</p><p>Almost two moons have passed since Llianderin’s captivity began. In that time, his captor has regrettably not grown any less attentive. Llianderin has spent so much of the past weeks with the orc’s massive cock pounding into him that sometimes he feels as though it has permanently hollowed him out, cored out a space within him that feels strangely empty when he isn’t being filled.</p><p>Llianderin still hates it. It stills hurts, leaves him panting and crying, leaves his hole burning and swollen and his thighs and ass cheeks tender and his hip joints screaming in protest at the repeated strain. He hates the marks the orc leaves on his skin over and over again as though branding his ownership, bruises from his fingers on Llianderin’s hips and knees and arms and waist, bruises from his mouth and teeth on Llianderin’s stomach and neck and ass and the inside of his thighs. </p><p>He hates the way the orc feels above him, covering him so heavily and thoroughly that he can barely breath, musky, iron-tinged sweat all he can smell. He hates the way the orc shoulders in between his legs like it’s his right and just takes. He hates the way he makes Llianderin feel powerless with his height and bulk and muscles, moving him as though he weights nothing even when the elf struggles with all his might. He hates how much the orc likes it when he struggles. He really, really hates how much he likes it when the orc licks him open, and he hates the orc for realizing it after only one time and doing it to him almost every single day.</p><p>He despises that blasted little wooden toy. The orc hasn’t made him ride an entire day with it in him again, thank the Goddess for small mercies; Llianderin has been so wiped out by the experience that he had been completely useless the next day, as boneless as a ragdoll, and after failing to extract even a brief struggle from him the warlord had declared the “lesson” shelved until further notice. That didn’t mean the toy itself was gone; on the contrary, the orc keeps finding new uses for it, each one more agonizing than its predecessor.</p><p>It features regularly when the warlord is trying to squeeze the second or third orgasm of the night from him, used in addition to or jointly with fingers. A new favorite act is making Llianderin sit back on it when he’s sucking the orc off; another is bending Llianderin over the warlord’s lap with his ass in the air, and twisting the stick inside him to make him gasp and take the orc’s cock deeper into his throat. </p><p>The worst method of application, however, barring that hellish ride, is one time when Llianderin’s exhausted body is struggling to come for a third time as he rides the warlord’s cock. He is panting into the orc’s clavicle, forehead pressed to his shoulder, arms shaking with the strain of bracing himself on the orc’s sweat-slippery thighs, when he feels something touch his stretched pucker. As soon he realizes what it is, he tries to pull away, but the orc holds him in place with one unyielding arm, ignoring his attempts to scratch and bite as he starts to push the toy’s bulbous head past the rim. Added to the already gargantuan cock forcing him open, the toy stretches the elf beyond his limit, pain robbing him of his ability to do anything but sob and scream and shake uncontrollably. Each ridged twist inside him batters his prostate, but also makes the cock impaling him pulse even harder than usual. The orc murmurs praise into his hair, his pistoling hips making the entire situation completely unbearable, and for the first time since he was captured Llianderin’s resolve breaks and he starts stroking himself – anything to finally end the torture. </p><p>Even as he lays in a daze of fatigue and soreness afterwards, Llianderin hates how smug the orc is as he curls around him for the night.</p><p>Tonight, though, the warlord comes to him late and takes him only once. Unusually, he doesn’t wipe Llianderin afterwards, and he lies there under a massive arm, semen sliding out of him slowly and drying stickily between his thighs, as the orc seems to just… go to sleep, snoring into the elf’s hair. </p><p>Minutes pass. Then an hour, then two. The orc continues to snore. </p><p>Slowly, ever so slowly, Llianderin starts to slide out from between the arm and leg trapping him close, keeping his ears open for the smallest sign of waking. At last, he is standing outside the covers, nude body shivering in the cold; and still, nothing. Carefully, he pulls on a tunic – it doesn’t cover much and does nothing against the chill in the air, but even this thin silk covering is better than making the escape entirely naked. A slow creep to the warlord’s discarded clothes nets him the knife from his belt. He doesn’t take anything else, the clothes and shoes too big, the greatsword much too heavy and long for him.</p><p>He doesn’t head for the tent’s opening; he knows enough to know there are guards posted outside. Instead, he makes for the back of the tent and makes a small slit near one of the poles. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he sticks his head out of the slit slowly. Nothing. The night is quiet, no one moving before him, barely any fires still burning. Slowly, so slowly, he lengthens the slit, until it is just big enough for him to slip through.</p><p>And then he is out of the tent, knife clutched in one hand and the taste of freedom tempting on his tongue.</p><p>Elves are extremely light on their feet. Walking without disturbing the ground or making any noise was one of the first lessons Llianderin was taught when he first started his martial training as a child. His steps are sure but completely silent as he picks his way carefully between the prone bodies around him.</p><p>Of course, that only works if someone is not already awake to see him.</p><p>He is at the last line of sleeping warriors when a hand closes around his ankle and pulls. He hits the ground abruptly enough to steal the breath from his lungs. A heavy, reeking body rolls over him, covering him completely and pinning him to the ground, palm clamping over his mouth strong enough to make his jaw creak. He slashes with the knife still in his hand, hitting something; the orc holding him down curses quietly and wrests the knife from him, almost breaking Llianderin’s wrist in the process.</p><p>“Hua? What was that?” He hears a deep voice complain nearby as the warriors around them stir. Llianderin freezes, terror-stricken. The alternate scenario the warlord painted the first night of his capture flashes in his mind. </p><p>“Nothing,” his current captor grunts; his vile breath is warm on Llianderin’s nape. “Rad’zul kicked me in his sleep, woke me up.”</p><p>“I did not!” an indignant voice claims from nearby. Yellow eyes glitter at Llianderin maliciously from less than a meter away, shining like a cat’s. Their owner smirks, before raising his voice again, “you always blame me for things, Ur’Kaz!”</p><p>“Well, you are always to blame!” his captor answers with the tone of someone settling into a lengthy and familiar argument. </p><p>A chorus of complaints rises around them. “You two are always such swinefuckers,” a gruff voice gripes. “Go to sleep and stop bothering the rest of us.”</p><p>“Sorry, Kur’duz!” His captor and his neighbor chorus together. With some more grumbling, the orcs around them settle down and go back to sleep. </p><p>Time passes. Against his will, Llianderin starts taking in various details about the orc holding him down. He is much smaller and lighter than the warlord, though still heavy enough to be an uncomfortable weight above him. He smells much, much, worse – the warlord stinks of metallic sweat and leather and musk and unwashed skin, but this one smells of rotten things on top of that. Llianderin starts shaking in panic when he realizes the orc in naked, or near it; his muscled chest hot through the thin fabric of his tunic, his hairy legs scratchy against the elf’s, his erection –</p><p>His erection is pressing against the elf’s backside.</p><p>For a brief moment, Llianderin dares to hope the two orcs concealed his presence from the others because they plan on returning him to the warlord. It’s not what he wants, but he knows it’s the absolute best-case scenario. </p><p>His hopes are dashed when his capture stands up and picks him up, one hand still held tightly over his mouth, and starts carrying him into the woods. The second orc quickly grabs his flailing legs. Together, his wriggling body provides no trouble, and soon they are deep within the woods. Above the frantic beating of his heart, Llianderin does hear streaming water close by.</p><p>“You better be quiet, little bitch, or I will break your jaw,” The first orc threatens, breath moist on his hear, and after a second Llianderin nods. These two are not the warlord. He has no reason to doubt they would take pleasure in breaking his bones.</p><p>They drop him on the hard, cold ground. Thankfully, moss protects him from the worst scratches, but he still feels sticks and pebbles dig into his skin.</p><p>Cruel hands tear his tunic away before restraining his arms and legs. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” one orc leers at him, features made even more gruesome by the shadowing dark. “Naz’ul really is a cunt, taking you all to himself and refusing to share. You’re a skinny thing, I can see why he was worried we’d break you, but he could’ve at last let us watch.”</p><p>A hand palms his ass roughly before two fingers are shoved inside him. Llianderin can’t stop his shout, earning a slap so hard it knocks his head to the side and makes him bite down on his tongue. The taste of blood fills his mouth.</p><p>“You’re still all loose and wet inside,” the orc between his legs complains. “Lucky for you, I suppose.” In the next second, his legs are pushed up and the orc thrusts inside, all the way until his pelvis bumps against Llianderin’s backside. Two months ago, that would have produced a scream from the elf and earned him another slap. Now… the orc is large and far from gentle, but Llianderin had the warlord’s gigantic cock inside him just a few hours ago. It’s painful, but it’s not nearly the most painful sensation he has experienced lately.</p><p>“Hey, why do you get to go first?” the orc holding his hands complains.</p><p>“Because I caught him! Wait your turn, or use his mouth in the meantime.”</p><p>Llianderin looks up in alarm, meeting glittering, narrowed eyes. A second later, the orc lets go of his wrists to grab his jaw in one hand and shift his own loincloth with the other, revealing a dripping erection. </p><p>“Bite and you’re dead,” is all the warning the elf receives before a cock is shoved down his throat, making him gag at the awful taste. And then he realizes he can’t breathe, the orc’s pelvis pressesing down on his nose. His hands push fruitlessly at the orc, growing more and more frantic as his vision starts to black out. And then both the pressure and the cock are removed. Llianderin takes great gulping breaths.</p><p>“- idiot! Don’t kill him, not yet anyway!” </p><p>“Well how was I supposed to know?” the orc that was just choking him asks petulantly. “You breathe on this one and he breaks.”</p><p>“He’s worth it – he has the sweetest ass I’ve ever had. You just have to be a little more careful,” the orc still pumping vigorously between Llianderin’s legs says, before he pauses. “Here, let’s do it like this, then there’s less risk of you killing him.”</p><p>He pulls out and flips Llianderin on all fours before pushing back in. Almost immediately, a large hand grabs Llianderin’s hair and the cock is pushed back into his mouth. The two orcs quickly establish a rhythm, the elf caught and pushed and pulled between them. Each harsh slide of the cock into his ass pushes him deeper on the cock in his throat and vice versa. He gags and drools and shakes and cries, barely holding himself up on his hands and knees, but at least he can sort of breathe. </p><p>“That’s it, you little cockslut, you’re just loving it, aren’t you?” the orc behind him hisses as Llianderin lets out a whimper at a particularly hard thrust. “Hear that, Rad’zul? He’s moaning so prettily for us. You just can’t get enough of orc cock, can you, elf? Naz’ul should have let everyone pass you around, should’ve tied you up in the middle of camp and let everyone use you. You’d have gotten so much orc cock your legs would’ve become permanently bent. Your sweet little hole would’ve become so gaping I could probably fit my fist in there – “</p><p>The orc’s ghastly diatribe comes to a halt as he starts coming, grinding his pelvis against Llianderin’s backside and filling him with warm cum, some of it trickling out and adding to the already dried mess on his thighs. He remains inside, bent over the elf and panting against his back.</p><p>“So that’s what you were two cunts were up to. You’ve got Naz’ul’s elf.”</p><p>Still speared on two cocks, one of them actively pumping down his throat, and held immobile by his hair, Llianderin can’t look towards the voice, but he feels both orcs stiffen, the one behind him finally pulling out. More cum slides down Llianderin’s legs.</p><p>“Kur’duz!” both orcs exclaim.</p><p>Large, dark, yellow-nailed feet come into Llianderin’s view, moving slowly. A hand slides almost gently down his back, smoothing at his cleft, before what feels like three fingers press into him. He jumps, his shout choked by the cock inside his mouth.</p><p>“Kur’duz –“</p><p>“Naz’ul will kill you if he founds out you touched his elf. How did you even manage it?”</p><p>“He was trying to run away. I caught him, so I’m entitled to a reward –“</p><p>The new orc chuckles. His thumb pushes into Llianderin slowly as well, spreading him painfully wide; new tears spring up in his eyes as he garbles his protests.</p><p>“Somehow I doubt Naz’ul will see it like that. You can’t return him now, you know that. Naz’ul will chop your head off.”</p><p>“What are we supposed to do then?” one of the original two demands angrily. Llianderin thinks he can detect a hint of fear in his voice, now. “And anyway, you’re touching him too!”</p><p>“Kill him, obviously,” the new orc states matter of factly. Llianderin’s blood freezes in his veins. “You can’t return him, and if you let him escape Naz’ul will track him and find out what you did anyway. Kill him, dump him in the river, the water will carry the corpse away.”</p><p>There’s silence for a few seconds. Even the orc holding to his hair stops moving.</p><p>“Damnation,” someone curses, and then, as Llianderin feels someone press against him from behind again and the nudge of a wet head against his entrance “– what the fuck do you think you’re doing, Kur’duz!?”</p><p>The cock slides inside him. “What does it look like I’m doing?” Kur’duz – his voice is lower than the other two, accent a bit more refined – answers. “If you’re going to kill him, no point in letting him go to waste.” He sets a leisurely pace, but he’s a lot bigger than the other two, almost as big as the warlord, and aided only by drying cum, the glide of his erection in and out burns.<br/>
The hand in Llianderin’s hair tightens. “Hey, it was my turn next!” the owner of the cock still down his throat complains. </p><p>“you’ll still get your turn,” Kur’duz grunts, picking up his speed. One of his hands tightens on the elf’s hipbones, fingernails digging in, while the other travels to a nipple, twisting harshly and making the elf shudder and twist. “That’s it, lovely. You like that, eh?”</p><p>“Well I want it now!” the complaining orc pulls out of Llianderin’s throat. The elf collapses on his forearms, coughing so hard he feels like he’s about to hack up a lung. His throat feels scraped raw, and his chin is covered in saliva and precum. </p><p>Kur’duz hauls Llianderin up against his chest, almost into his lap, making the cock lodged inside him go even deeper. Throat now unobstructed, the elf’s whimpers ring clear as his nipples are pinched and rolled, and the sound seems to spur the orc fucking him on. </p><p>The thwarted orc looms before them, fists clenched. “It’s my turn,” he insists. “I was here first. Give him to me.”</p><p>Through a terror-induced fog, Llianderin wonders if this is how his life ends, torn to pieces in a fight between beasts. </p><p>“Hold on, Rad’zul, Kur’duz,” his original captor intervenes, grabbing onto both combative orcs. “Why not just share him?”</p><p>Three pairs of eyes, Llianderin’s included, turn to stare at him.</p><p>“Naz’ul’s been fucking him daily for weeks now. He can probably take a horse’s cock at this point,” the orc says. “Rad’zul, just kneel in front; Kur’duz, you hold him up a bit; and situation solved.”</p><p>The world seems to freeze for a minute, and then Llianderin is being lifted. A coarse palm smothers his scream, and hands contain his thrashing body easily as the second orc kneels in front of him and points his spit-slicked erection upward. Kur’duz’s arms are like a vice around him, lowering him down. He feels the head press against his stretched rim and sobs harder.</p><p>“It’s not going in,” Rad’zul complains. </p><p>“You are useless,” Kur’duz snaps, and loosens an arm; a second later thick fingers hook on Llianderin’s rim, pulling it even wider and making him spasm at the strain. The head nudged in again, and then a second cock starts pushing into him slowly. </p><p>It burns like nothing before. Even with oil, the warlord’s cock has always felt like an impossible struggle as it entered him, and it always, always hurt. But the warlord, even with his infernal toy, never actually made him feel like he was going to tear in two. He screams and begs and screams again as he is filled beyond his capacity. His body is so taut from the agony that he can feel every muscle pop out, every tendon strain; his teeth grind together so harshly that were he capable of clear thought he would’ve worried about breaking a tooth. </p><p>He’s not. All he knows is pain.</p><p>“So tight…” he vaguely hears someone grunt.</p><p>“Remove your hand, I want his mouth now,” another voice says, sounding far away.</p><p>“Are you crazy? He’s screaming so loud the second I remove my hand we’ll have the whole camp on us!”</p><p>“No one will hear him with my cock down his throat!”</p><p>“What, exactly, do you think you’re doing?” a deep voice hisses quietly, and then silence reigns.</p><p>The voice is familiar, but for the life of him Llianderin can’t place it. He feels the orcs around him tense up, and then the hand over his mouth moves to wrap around his throat, pressing down, and he welcomes the darkness gladly.</p><p> </p><p>********</p><p> </p><p>Naz’ul has been expecting the elf to attempt an escape for weeks. His method of taming his prize is calculated to shape the elf exactly into the pet he wants, something beautiful and fiery but so deeply imprinted with him that the elf will never even think of straying from his side, of craving any other touch but his. He does not want to just batter the elf into submission with fear and pain, he wants to show him how enormously rewarding giving himself to Naz’ul, being owned by him, could be.  </p><p>But his method is slow, he knows this. Though the elf has mostly stopped fighting his attentions, has even – though he makes a show of protesting – started to crave them, he has not yet surrendered his pride and his memories of his previous life. </p><p>An escape attempt in orc territory will be disastrous, however, both to Naz’ul’s reputation and to his prize. So, for the past few weeks he has contrived to provide the elf with the perfect “opportunity,” hoping to get it out of his system before they cross over. He started setting up his tent temptingly close to the edge of camp. And he notifies his personal guards.</p><p>“You think he’s going to be stupid enough to try and escape?” Fen’ril asks skeptically. “I thought you frightened him enough when you threatened to give him over to the warriors, that first night.”</p><p>Naz’ul, however, knows the rebellious fire still smoldering within the elf. He sees it every time the elf attempts to push him away, every time he fights against admitting Naz’ul’s touch gives him pleasure. Though he has gotten better since that oh-so illuminating ride last month, the deposed prince is still a stubborn, disobedient creature. </p><p>“It is the nature of caged things, to want to break free,” he tells Fen’ril now. “You can clip a songbird’s wings, but it will always yearn for flight; it is when you can make the songbird forget it even has wings that you have made a pet of it.”</p><p>Naz’ul has been ready for days now, then. But when they stop to make camp, he knows tonight is the night – the conditions are simply too perfect. If the elf doesn’t run now, he won’t run at all.</p><p>He lets his guard know, makes sure they spread a few patrols around the parameters of the camp. While he is almost certain the elf will go towards the woods, he has not achieved his current position by neglecting contingency plans. </p><p>Despite his constant hunger for the elf, he takes him gently tonight; too sore, and the elf may decide to delay his escape. He leaves his semen leaking out of the elf, as well – if for some reason he does manage to gain some headway, Naz’ul’s loyal hounds will be able to track him by smell. Orc semen, after all, is quite potent, and high-orc semen even more so.</p><p>He manages a light doze, keeping up his snores, and taking care to stay still once the elf starts to gingerly slip out of his arms. He’s grudgingly impressed by the elf’s decision to slit the back of the tent instead of going out the front, despite the fact that he will have to get it fixed; he ordered his regular guards to abandon their posts, but the elf couldn’t have known that.</p><p>And then all that is left it to wait.</p><p>Naz’ul expects his guards to enter his tent after a while, struggling and crying elf prince in tow – he instructed them to let the elf gain a little distance first, to give him that false sense of hope he so needed crushed. Instead, his guards come in and tell him some of his forces got their hands on his pet.</p><p>“What?” he demands, throwing away the covers and started to pull on his clothes and weapons. “Those low-life worms! For daring to defy me and for touching what I claimed to be mine, I will separate their traitorous heads from their shoulders!”</p><p>In all honesty, Naz’ul always knew this was a possibility. His warriors fear him, even those who are not particularly loyal to him; high-orcs like him, who are much bigger, stronger, and so much more intelligent than regular orcs popped up once every few generations, and their destiny was always to rule. Normally, no orc would dare go against Naz’ul’s direct orders. But the elf, like any rare and beautiful prize, inspired both greed and rebellion. </p><p>To no one but a few of his very best and most trusted guards, Naz’ul not only acknowledged the possibility but even admitted he wanted this exact outcome; rescuing the elf from the rabble would go a long way towards securing his trust, if not his affections. After all, he could have planted his tent on the edge of the camp and not close to it, saved the elf from having to pass through that same exact rabble. Within each patrol, there was one guard who knew exactly how to act – or not to act – if this exact scenario came to pass.</p><p>Still, even if they played into his hands, he was furious that some of his forces had actually worked up the courage to defy direct orders. Maybe he needed to make a few examples of dissenters again, to remind his people exactly who it was they were dealing with. Maybe his recent softness with the elf has caused some of them to forget he was anything but soft. </p><p>Naz’ul can hear the camp stirring as he stalks towards the woods, sword in hand, followed by armed guards. Orcs hastily roll out of his way lest they be trampled. He pays no heed to the uneasy murmurs.</p><p>The scene he sees as he arrives deep within the trees a few minutes later inspires both rage and lust. His elf is always beautiful, and there is a certain special kind of beauty in his tears and pain. Seeing him screaming and writhing on two cocks is no exception; his delicate, silvery radiance juxtaposed bewitchingly against the hulking, dark forms that surround him. But Naz’ul’s appreciation is vastly overshadowed by fury, that these common-as-muck worms thought themselves good enough to touch his elf, to put their hands and mouths and marks on him, like he belonged to them. </p><p>“What, exactly, do you think you’re doing?” he hisses; his voice is deceptively quiet but it cuts through the squabble before him like a sword through unprotected flesh. </p><p>The three orcs freeze, looking up at him in horror. One – the one standing – abruptly sprints into the darkness; two guards peel off after him without needing orders. Of the two remaining, Naz’ul recognizes one.</p><p>Kur’duz is a fine warrior, but there has always been that hint of disrespect in his behavior. He’s bigger than most – his grandsire was high-orc, if Naz’ul remembers correctly – and he has always acted like he thinks he is better than his current position. Never enough to actually give Naz’ul a reason to punish him for his disobedience, but enough for the warlord to know his name despite him not holding a high position in society. Well, fortune has smiled upon Naz’ul tonight, finally providing him with a justifiable cause.</p><p>As though able to read his mind, Kur’duz moves his hand to the elf’s neck, squeezing. “Move, and I kill him,” he threatens. His eyes are wild. The other orc unfreezes, pulling out hastily and scrambling back, only to be restrained. </p><p>“You’re already dead, Kur’duz,” Naz’ul tells him, stalking closer slowly; the other orc’s eyes move between his face and his sword nervously. “But if you kill the elf, you’ll suffer for days as I flay the flesh from your bones, and the only reason the whole army won’t be kept awake by your screams is because I’ll cut your cock off and stuff it down your throat.”</p><p>Another second passes; Naz’ul watches the fingers tighten around the elf’s throat. Then Kur’duz gulps, and nods. His fingers fall away, and he lifts the still form of the elf off him, laying him down. Immediately, two guards grab him and force him to his feet. </p><p>Naz’ul bends down to check the elf for a pulse. He’s bruised and battered, a purple ring already forming around his pale throat, but he’s just unconscious. “Behead all three and put their heads on spikes in front of my tent,” he orders, gathering the elf into his arms. “And send me a shaman.”</p><p> </p><p>********</p><p> </p><p>Every breath feels like a struggle. The air burns coming in, forced through abused muscles, and burns coming out, emerging with a frighteningly rough-sounding whistle. Weakly, Llianderin brings a hand up to his throat (he almost faints again from the surge of pain the move sends through his entire body) – there is fabric wrapped around it, slimy with some sort of ointment.</p><p>A gentle hand pushes his fingers away. Only when it stops does he realize it was stroking his face and hair. “Don’t touch it,” the warlord says. “The damage will need a few days to heal.”</p><p>Llianderin opens his eyes slowly. He is, once again, laying on the warlord’s broad chest, head resting on a rippling pectoral, furs up to his shoulders. The hand has resumed stroking his cheek softly, so softly, softer than he thought the hulking orc was capable of. </p><p>He starts shaking as he remembers exactly what transpired in the woods. The pain, and the terror – how casually they were speaking of killing him and tossing his corpse in the river – he suddenly can’t breathe at all, the panic rising and rising, black spots swimming at the edge of his vision.</p><p>Gently – so gently – he is sat up, caged protectively between huge hot arms. Through his hysteria, he registers what feels, improbably, like a kiss being pressed to his head. “Hush, little one, hush, you’re safe. They’re dead. You’re safe.”</p><p>Llianderin knows he is the farthest thing from safe. But for a minute – for a minute he forgets himself and curls into the stifling hold around him. Against all odds, he feels relief, being here in this tent, held possessively close. He thought he was going to die. He was in so much pain, and he was so frightened, and he thought he was going to die. And now he’s alive, and the warlord is wiping away his tears with gentle hands and rocking him soothingly, pressing kisses into his hair.</p><p>“I won’t punish you for trying to run away from me, just this once,” the warlord murmurs. “And I promise you this: stay with me, and no one but me will ever touch you again.”</p><p>Llianderin nods, and cries, and lets himself be held.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So that’s that then! The promised escape and consequences, and a little more insight into the warlord, his circumstances, and his plans for his captured prince. He’s a little bit like an onion, this one – many layers, and much more complex than seems at first. And very cunning.</p><p>I am not 100% sure I will write another part in this series. I know it’s mostly porn but there is an underlying plot and I don’t really have any ideas for what will happen with these two once they get back to the warlord’s stronghold. Also I kind of like the note this part ended on. We’ll see. Maybe I’ll do a few slices of life, not a “real” continuation, just to explore several more kinks. Anyway, if you want to be notified about new writing you should subscribe to the series, but at this point I’m not necessarily planning to write more in this universe.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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